Punishment
by Isabella Uke
Summary: Brother Blood has had enough of Punk Rocket's failed attempts, and believes a bit of punishment is in order. Contains spanking and full fledged yaoi in chapter two.


Alright, here's the disclaimer...I don't own Teen Titans, or any of the characters...Also, keep in mind that this is a two-shot, so I will update as soon as possible.

The man looked insane. And frankly, after being roughly handled, knocked out, and forced into a chair, Punk had made up his mind that, at least this time, looks were not deceiving. Although his throat hurt far to much to say anything, and his wrists had started chaffing long ago and now sported sores, therefore deeming them fit for any kind of escape, he still favored the man with a shockingly cold gaze as his kidnapper, if you will, strode into the room. Brother Blood ignored the younger man at first, which made Thomas feel a good bit like furniture and a bit more like taking a bottle and smashing the man's face in as he rifled through the papers on his desk as if they were far more important than someone he'd just taken hostage. Finally, the man whirled around and studied the boy. 'Well, Thomas,' he said, keeping his voice as smooth as a lake before the first bolt of lightning came shattering down, 'this is certainly an improvement.' The comment caused the younger man to snarl viciously, no doubt some vile phrase that was muffled by the rope around his neck. This was in no way threatening, so Punk settled for spitting in the man's general direction, which caused him to snort in disgust.

'But even a new collar and a bath can't make a mutt look like a showdog, I suppose..' Blood trailed off. He was referring to Thomas' new couture, which, if it had to be settled in one word, was decidedly 'schoolboy'. His normal and rather rocker rags had been stripped of him while he was unconscious, not by his new companion, he fervently hoped. They'd been replaced first with a plain white collared shirt and a blood red tie, soon accompanied by a navy blue jacket that made him look no older than fifteen. Then came his rather flashy black and white boxers, which had been switched to off white briefs, which of course he could not see, but could certainly feel, because they were a tad tighter than they should have been. Of course, it's not proper to wander about in one's undergarments, even if they are simple colors, so blue shorts that mimicked his jacket had been slid on as well. But the real crime of the matter was his hair. The normal starfish like spikes of it had been tamed beyond any comprehension, made to lay flat, and to his dismay, also cut a great deal, so as not to form a mullet when slicked back or wet. To make matters worse, Brother Blood had been kind enough to place a full length mirror in front of him, so that he could enjoy ever excruciating detail of his transformation. His throat tightened as he examined himself, and a feeling that he could not place washed over him, making him uncomfortable, so he turned himself back to Brother Blood.

The man was now holding a large file in his hand and thumbing through the papers, before slowly approaching the boy and slamming it down on the floor, papers flying everywhere, some of which Thomas could make out his name and picture on, headlines or maybe even just something Blood had constructed himself. The older man slid his hands angrily onto the boy's chair, hands around the armrests, long fingernails digging into his arms. 'Failure,' he said, 'you're simply revolting.' The look on Punk's face made the man lick his lips and smile. He removed his hands, admiring the marks he'd left on the boy's skin. Then he slid even closer, so that their noses brushed just slightly. 'You know, Thomas, there was in fact a time where I thought you might have been useful. But after a shocking five attempts at the most simple of crimes, and five times taken to jail, let's just say that my faith in you has waned. It has become exceedingly obvious just how…useless you really are…' he said, spitting the last part out as if it was acid and then smirking.

Punk had had enough. He swallowed hard and then spat resentfully into the man's face, harsh and choked laughter coming out of his throat as he watched Blood rear back in disgust and wipe the trail of saliva off his face, snarling in disgust. Then, without hesitation the man drew back his flat palm and smacked the boy roughly across the face, leaving a brutal red handprint and causing Thomas to cry out in surprise. 'That's it,' he yelled, taking the boy by the hair and jerking roughly up so that the rope around his neck bit into him until it snapped clean off, and his hand chains came lose. Punk could feel blood begin to trickle down his lip, some of it flowing into his mouth and making his head spin from the copper taste and the pounding of his heart. He felt drugged and weak as the man forced him over to a broad desk, sweeping pencils off as he went.

Blood slammed the boy's head against the edge of the wood once with flourish, just to hear him whine like a wounded dog in pain, and then took his chaffed and bleeding wrists roughly and slid them onto his desk. He then pressed a button hidden under the wood's surface, causing two rings to slide from the interior and wrap in coils around the boy's hands. He then took the boy's hair and forced his face all the way down to the mahogany surface, so that he could not see behind him. 'Stay,' he snarled, and Punk was feeling so lightheaded that he didn't even consider disobeying, but hoped he didn't drown from the trickle of blood that was slowly forming a puddle around his head. He could hear faint noises of a lock being undone and Brother Blood removing something from a cabinet, before the man walked in front of the desk and slid the item in front of his nose.

His already parched throat went even dryer than before as his eyes took in what it was. It was long, flat, and painted black, with three holes drilled into the end. A paddle of sorts. 'I deal with all sorts of children, Thomas...' the man purred, making his way back behind the boy after he had seen the tool. 'And I think what you crave is a little…structure,' he said sarcastically. His hands wandered slowly down Punk's back to grope shamelessly at his ass, palms running lazily over it, one reaching once in between his legs to rub slightly. Despite himself Punk flinched and bit back a moan. He could feel warmth spreading from in between his thighs.

Blood took a deep breath and a sip from a large bottle off his desk before twirling the paddle around and laying into the boy's tight backside with a loud slap. The kid cried out and closed his eyes, managing to choke out a few words. 'You bastard!' he cried out, voice wavering. 'Yes?' Blood teased, and brought back the wood for another harsh stroke. Thomas gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, feeling them water shamelessly. He wouldn't make a sound, he promised himself, wouldn't cry. Blood grinned at the boy's resistance. That shield he was wearing would soon break, he told himself, and smacked him roughly again. Then again, and then once more, before he finally heard a choked sob from Thomas. 'I do believe I'm getting through to you, boy,' Blood said, leaning forward and placing a taunting kiss on the boy's cheek, 'but it's going much to slow.' He finished, then whipped the belt off Thomas' waist, dropping his pants so that all that was left were his overly tight briefs and the bare backs of his legs, making him look like a child receiving punishment from his father.

Punk whimpered this time, without caring much at all, because it was now obvious to both of them that his defenses were wearing down. Blood gazed with relish at the obvious tent in the boy's underwear before sliding the wood roughly across his sore ass and laying it down with a satisfying sound. Then, once more, he slid a hand over the boy's backside, feeling how it'd heated up in the past minutes, before striking the hot surface again, then again, until finally he could see the boy shaking and hear soft sobs coming from his throat, although he wasn't at the point of begging yet. 'Shh…' he coaxed in an almost disgusting way, sliding a hand along Punk's shoulders. 'Just a few more. Count to five, Thomas. Count slowly.' The boy shook his head and let his head drop against the desk in defeat. He couldn't speak through his tears and humiliation. 'Thomas, if you don't count to five, we'll have to start at ten.' Punk groaned and gripped the bindings on his hand.

'One,' he whispered, voice horse, and then felt a sharp pain on his already abused ass, yelping.  
'Go on.'  
'T-two,' he said, tensing, and receiving another.  
'Three.'  
Blood paused, and let a particularly harsh one grace the boy's skin. 'Just two more,' he promised.  
Punk could hardly speak through the lump in his throat, and he didn't feel a day over five.  
'F-four!' he halfway yelled, as the words coincided with the beating.  
'And five,' the older man finished, leaving the last slap to be softer, but not without pain.  
Thomas then broke down into tears as the chains slid off his hands and the man pulled him close to his body, removing his jacket and undoing his tie so that his shirt could be removed. He didn't have the strength to struggle as the Blood halfway carried him over to the couch and stroked his hair, laying him across his chest on his lap. It was almost disturbing to be treated in such an immature way after the harsh beating, but any fight he'd had in him before had vanished. The older man took time to thoughtfully stroke the boys erection, gripping it teasingly.  
'Are you ready to behave Thomas?'


End file.
